


Apart From Any Lonesome Sea

by JaeNunyah



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28525710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaeNunyah/pseuds/JaeNunyah
Summary: What if Dave left and Roger stayed?
Comments: 29
Kudos: 5





	1. Division Knell

**Author's Note:**

> Title is an anagram of A MOMENTARY LAPSE OF REASON, showcasing that in THIS world, THAT album never existed. For any followers of my other stuff, this is an absolute AU completely unrelated to those tangled tales. Rated "mature" for what will eventually happen. Although first few chapters are clean, this WILL be an "adult" story on obscene occasion.

"This is the final cut, Roger!" Dave decisively declares, sneering across the studio as he slams Stratocaster onto rickety rack. "I'm not cutting ONE MORE RECORD all about your big, throbbing ego! Nobody fucking LIKES you, and nobody wants to hear about your personal problems."

"Oh, goddammit, not AGAIN." Nick huffs, arising aggrieved from behind his kit and clattering sticks atop snare. "Here comes another pointless pissing contest. Screw you guys, I'm goin' home. Call me when you're ready to do some fucking WORK."

Rick shares the sentiment, but does not dare echo it. Remaining rooted, he softly sighs before lighting a cigarette and awaiting familiar fireworks display.

Dave moves to block Nick's attempted egress, pointing admonishing finger at departing drummer's chest while scathing gaze rakes Roger. "Nuh-uh, Nick, you don't get to walk away this time. We're finally having it out. We've ALL said so behind His back, but now we're gonna throw it in His ugly face. Pink Floyd could go on and be just as successful if Roger Waters dropped dead, and we don't deserve to be treated like shit when we all KNOW who the fans like best."

Roger strides coolly away from mixing board, reading the room while preparing his defense. "Very well. Knew this day was coming-"

"Yeah, cuz you just know EVERYTHING, don't you?" Dave interrupts "Since it's your way or the highway, maybe you ought to drive alone and quit tellin' US how to do our jobs."

"I HAVE been preparing to fly solo..." Roger concedes "...but Pink Floyd is a brand I'm not entirely inclined to abandon, considering AYE was here from its inception and have contributed more toward our sucess than anybody else in this room. In fact-"

"Oh FUCK your facts!" Dave cuts him off once more, face flushing with righteous indignation. "Syd was a goddamn dumb-ass maniac and we only started to really take off after AYE came along. Even YOU can't deny THAT."

[If he interrupts me one more time, the gloves are off...] "You replacing Syd coincided with me hitting compositional confidence. My 'personal problems', as you so pithily put it, are what happens to be seeding us high in the charts. YOU don't seem to have anything important to say, so I'm getting a little sick-"

Dave snarls "YOU'RE getting sick? This highfalutin' hogwash makes ME wanna puke every DAY-"

"SHUT UP!" Roger roars at top volume, gratified to behold cower from every corner as bandmates behold just how loud a man who prefers inflection over invocation CAN be when properly motivated. "I am only going to say this once, although I now see I certainly should have said so before." He takes a deep breath, foundation grounded, determined to try. "Anybody over the mental age of twelve can hold his fucking peace and wait his fucking turn. DO NOT INTERRUPT ME, and I promise I'll afford you all the same courtesy once I've said my piece, okay?"

Standing tall and affecting an insouciant confidence he does not feel, Roger faces the faces of those he knows are NOT his friends, hoping to make himself heard. "Look, I know we can't go on this way, but I want us to go on...together. I can acknowledge I'm not a likable man, yet I really hope you also understand that the music I'm trying to to make...the stories I need to tell... are what's selling records and crafting our legacy. If you all agree you don't want me, guess I'll go, but I need to see each one of you look me in the eyes and say so."

Nobody speaks for several beats.

"Rick?" Dave endearingly entreats, aware flirtatious face facilitates alluring effect, attempting to lever heretofore unrequited crush into alliance. "Wouldn't you rather play with me?"

Warmed with winsome expression, Rick can't help but feel manipulated. [He knows I want him, so seduces slyly. Acting like he'll put out if I play along, but I bet he wouldn't really love me back. I might be a sap, but I'm not a fool.] It takes every ounce of courage to reply "That's a mean tease, Dave. At least Roger plays straight."

Shocked that Rick admitted attraction...however obliquely veiled...then rejected it, Dave switches to Nick. "You've said how much you HATE having to play what He composes. If we kick Him out, you can write your OWN backbeats."

"What I hate is the fighting..." Nick states "...and it's YOU who starts most of it. I just wanna make good music, and Roger knows what He's doing. Dunno why you keep tryin' to break balls."

"He's hypnotizing you!" Dave howls with furious frustration. "How is it when He's NOT around you agree with me but now you're on His side? What the FUCK, fellows? This is NOT what we planned."

Roger is hurt (but not surprised) to learn they'd discussed dismissing him, gloriously gratified to see another way. "Dave, listen..." he tries, but is abruptly cut off.

"No. I'm not EVER listening to you AGAIN, and I bet nobody ELSE will once word gets out there IS no more Pink Floyd. To hell with ALL of you! I QUIT, and you bastards won't EVER be able to replace me." Dave stomps out of the room, and all within it hear a metaphorical door-slam although there was not a literal one.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish!" Roger shouts at Dave's back before turning to regard befuddled bandmates with sincere gratitude. "Thank you for standing with me. Wasn't sure you would. I promise you won't regret it if we work together to decide what we want in a new guitarist. Let's put out a casting call, shall we?"


	2. Rez-ooo-May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving forward...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solemnly swear I pulled the name "Noah O'Hara" entirely out of my ass (just liked the sound, and am a GONE WITH THE WIND fan) and that no connection to anybody living, dead or fictional was intended.

"I can't BELIEVE how many big names are offering to trade their bands for ours." Rick is not normally given to gloating, but can't help being gleefully gratified guitarists boasting impeccable credentials have been literally lining up. "I mean, we already KNOW what these guys can do, so it's not like we even need to bother with actual auditions."

"Deserters." Roger decrees, modulating dogmatic declamation into inclusive inquiry. "Do we really want somebody who might walk away from US upon spotting a bigger, better deal?" He's somewhat surprised at himself for uttering next words, rather than merely thinking them. "If Clapton or Beck were on offer, I'd take either in a heartbeat. Sadly, they're not, so I think we should give a chance to somebody we DON'T know."

"Well, you're the only one who's read the ree-ZOOMS..." Nick quips "...and dragged us in today to play big-shot fat-cats. I'm really not looking forward to crushing dreams or breaking balls, Roger."

"Me, neither." Rick anxiously agrees, striving to subvert a dreaded ordeal he fears will make HIM more nervous than any prospective player could ever be. "What about Andy Summers? You said he's a possibility."

Roger laughs at the very idea, sharing reason he's rejecting suggestion. "Yeah, I said that, but have since come to my senses. Sure, I approve Summers' stylings, but couldn't work with his temperament. That little fucker's not only mean, he's SMART, too. You think the bickering became bitter with Dave...?"

"Dave wasn't mean..." is desultorily defended in mild murmur as Rick uncharacteristically speaks his mind "...or dumb, and he wouldn't have walked out if not for YOUR nasty temperament."

Biting back rude retort [Maybe you should've run away with him...but at least you're talking about him in past tense, which is unexpectedly heartwarming] in favor of couched concession, Roger sighs "Maybe so, but there's no going back. What Dave is...or was...or whatever...is no longer at issue. I can't apologize for my attitudes, although I admit I could certainly stand to behave with more grace and patience..." he solemnly regards Rick and Nick in careful consideration "...like you have. The best I can do, going forward, is promise I'll try to keep my mean mouth shut a little more often, and to think before I speak. Like it or not, Nick, we ARE big-shot fat-cats, and we need to present a unified front to the new guy." Roger carries on in strangely subdued tone, albeit archly articulating "The rez-oo-MAYS which have been rolling in showcase unique potential, and it really IS a shame I'm the only one who could be bothered to peruse them. I don't WANT a seasoned rock-n-roller, okay? Would it kill us to try a PROFESSIONAL musician with more substance than swagger, who has instruments OTHER than guitar in his repertoire?"

Nick is the first to recover from shock at Roger's weirdly self-effacing soliloquy. "You've clearly got a man in mind. Who are we meeting today, anyway?"

Roger picks up sheaf of sheets, reading aloud in lofty intonation: "Noah O'Hara."

"Isn't he one of Scarlett's kids?" jokes Nick, followed immediately by a scornful scoff from Rick.

"O'Hara's her MAIDEN name, dummy, and she only had ONE kid, a girl named Bonnie."

"In the BOOK, she had three." Roger corrects "One by each husband. Her father was Gerald, and she had no brothers. There's no Noah O'Hara in GONE WITH THE WIND." he chuckles with bemusement, asking aloud "Why do I know that?"

"Because you know EVERYTHING." Echoes of Dave's departure are not lost within Nick's rueful rejoinder, and he tries to lighten the mood before anybody can brood. "With a name like that, I bet he'll be redheaded and freckled."

"I ought to TAKE that bet..." Roger replies "...just to check your preconceptions, but I won't. He's Black."

"Oh, have you met him already?" Rick eagerly inquires.

Roger sniffs "I have not, and was somewhat stunned the musical director of The Belfast Symphony Orchestra felt the need to mention Mister O'Hara's race when I called to check his references."

"Orchestra?" erupts from both bandmates in amusing unison before their next utterances overlap.

"What instrument?" wonders Rick.

"What a stupid dickhead!" Nick proclaims.

"Of course he's a stupid dickhead." Roger indulgently agrees "He didn't even know who AYE am, which only made me MORE inclined to steal Noah away." He strides across the room to hand off paperwork to Rick, having already memorized information upon it himself. "Currently first-chair viola, and has also held positions with violin and cello in not only Belfast but Dublin's Philharmonic as well. He's cut records, too, but only as studio musician, mostly backing up opera singers, which I wouldn't expect YOU two to know or care anything about." [Might be nice to have somebody who groks what I mean while working on my OWN opera.]

While Rick reads, Nick ruminates "Okay, great, but does he play GUITAR?"

"Obviously." Roger reins in a sneer as Rick recites from resume.

"Wow, he's a big fan, and funny too. No wonder Roger wants to meet him. Listen to this: 'When I heard David Gilmour declaring Pink Floyd had disbanded, I cried. When I heard Roger Waters call him a liar and issue a casting call, I cheered. Couldn't resist throwing my hat into that ring. I'm not a guitar man by trade, but I promise that anything Gilmour can do, I can do better. Please give me an audition and let me prove it. Even if you decline to play with me, it would be an honor to play for you just once.' "

"Whoa..." Nick trails off, shaking his head and resuming train of thought with a grin "That's a big brag, but he comes off humble about it. Now AYE wanna meet him."

"Me, too." decides Rick.

"Good." Roger proclaims "He's prob'ly waiting out in the lobby already, since his appointment starts in fifteen minutes. Orchestra people are accustomed to punctuality in a way with which rockers usually can't be concerned. Best foot forward, fellows, we've got an image to uphold. If he's half the man in person he appears on paper, we'll want to keep him around."

Nick affably concedes "Even if he doesn't fit as guitarist, it'll be cost-effective to have a one-man string quartet on hand for studio work. Let's see what he's got."


	3. It's My Own Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presenting Noah O'Hara "In The Flesh"

Rick likes his gentle voice, and wonders if Noah can sing as sweetly as he speaks.

Nick likes his affable attitude, and wonders if Noah's mellow manner might mesh magnificently.

Roger likes his obvious honesty. While the truth rang as cleanly and clearly from Noah's intelligent introductions as the notes now do from fingers fondling steel strings, Roger wonders if sterling sincerity could survive a blatantly bullshit business like Rock-n-Roll.

All three men are intently impressed at Noah O'Hara's truly terrific talent, although each finds himself privately amused at his appearance. Noah is a distinctly diminutive dude, and his huge, hollow-body Gretsch guitar makes such short, slight stature seem almost ridiculous. There's nothing funny...or small... about his skill, though. For a fellow who's made a career reproducing the works of decomposing composers, keening bends and ripping snarls reveal he has clearly come prepared to exhibit exemplary contemporary chops.

However, Noah has yet to play anything from their own catalog. While Roger deduces this omission must be deliberate, and has little desire to hear any solos for which Dave was recognized [And all too often CREDITED, although AYE wrote most of the fucking things], he nonetheless understands that they could never hire anybody who cannot copy their Big Hits.

As if reading Roger's rueful thoughts, Noah deftly disconnects, pulling pickup plug so swiftly and smoothly that not faintest feedback flicker mars musical melody. "Beggin' your pardon, gents..." he serenely smiles at Rick and Nick in turn, lilting brogue bearing Belfast woodnotes wild as he turns to regard Roger "...but we're all in agreement who the Big Boss Man is around here, yeah? I know you've all got to approve me, but sure seems only one of you is likely to give the orders. Am I right?"

"It's not a dictatorship." Roger insists, only to be flatly contradicted by Rick.

"Yes, it is."

"Still hammering that out, huh?" Noah chuckles softly. "Well, I need some DIRECTION here, fellas. So far, you've just said 'show us whatcha got', and I've been aiming to please, but if you don't tell me what you WANT it kinda cuts me off at the knees."

Roger realizes he has no right to complain he's not properly obeyed if he cannot clearly command. [Whether Rick likes it or not, Noah makes a very valid point...I'm the only one who WILL.] "Very well, Mister O'Hara, we let you fool around showcasing what you play when left to your own devices, but now let's see how you handle MINE." He points across the room toward guitar rack. "Put down your Gretsch, and go get that Strat. You will reproduce the Pink Floyd solo of your choice EXACTLY as it appears on original album cut."

"Now we're talkin"!" Noah grins while following instruction, yet grumbles a bit while tuning up and preparing appropriate pedals. "I hate a Stratocaster, though, Boss."

"Why?" Roger indulges, archly adding "Your resume made the rather bold claim that you can do ANYTHING Gilmour managed."

"Oh, I CAN..." Noah promises "...even on a dumb blunt instrument like this, but if you wanna hear me do BETTER you'll let me use my own tools."

" 'Better' is subjective..." Roger decrees "... 'Exactly' is not. Ticketholders want what they heard on their transistors, and I need to know you can duplicate that."

"They hardly ever spin this track on any station, but you said I can choose." Without further ado, Noah nudges up amplifier's volume with the toe of his trainer and looses howling wail of 'Dogs'. Sobbing, throbbing chords fill the studio, reverberating in note-perfect recreation, although merrily mirthful expression on Noah's face as he plays them stands in stark contrast to petulantly furrowed scowl habitually exhibited by Dave while in the throes of solos.

[Damn, he makes it look easy. Maybe it actually IS for him.]

"That one's a little more complex, but this is my favorite," is all Noah offers in the way of commentary before making minor adjustments and shifting seamlessly into 'Hey You'. As he sends soaring solo skyward, nailing wailing bends beautifully, Roger catches curious faces peeping through small, square window of studio door left negligently ajar.

[Can't blame them, but won't suffer a fucking peanut gallery.] Stalking so swiftly as to sweep the door entirely open before gormless gawkers can flee, Roger snarls into sheep-like stares "If you don't have WORK to do, you shouldn't even be in the building. If I catch you spying on OUR work again, I will PERSONALLY throw you out of it."

Knowing full well why anybody overhearing had been moved to sneak a peek, Nick drawls "Dave's not here, man!" in his best Tommy Chong impression, provoking retreating titters which waft inside as the door slams shut.

"Exactly?" Noah's evident satisfaction stops just shy of smug. "I've never played Pink Floyd for anybody but my friends before, and here half of Abbey Road thinks Gilmour's come home."

"Yes, well done," Roger tersely praises "but you never said, specifically, what you find so distasteful about a Stratocaster. Tell me now, while you set up to show us what you mean by 'better'."

Noah cheerfully pontificates, clearly pleased with himself, brandishing finished Fender. "Well, this hewn hunk is why they call a guitar an axe. Sure, if I tried to chop down a tree, my big-ol' baby would shatter..." he allows, retaking gleaming Gretsch at issue and stroking fingertips along the clef-shaped cutouts "...but that flat Strat's got no ring or ding...no bing or bong. No soul at all on its OWN, just whatever the player can sling on HIS own."

Without waiting for response, Noah proceeds to reprise 'Dogs', this time throwing twinkling counterpoint of extra notes into empty spaces Roger hadn't even been aware were there. Having deemed strident solo full to the brim exactly as it stood upon composition's completion, he's unexpectedly humbled to behold it can, indeed, be better. Unexpected additions evoke rattle of chain and jingle of tag in intricate overlay to the howls and growls he'd intended, brilliantly conveying that these titular beasts may be domesticated dogs, yet are no pampered pets. 

[The WORDS say that they're trained to bite, and now the music does, too. Who trained YOU, Mister O'Hara? Will you serve a less-than-likable Master with far fewer flashes of fang than ill-tempered predecessor?]

This time, as the solo dies to silence, Roger is not so stingy with his admiration. "That's amazing. Did you just now improvise it?"

"I'm good, Boss, but I ain't THAT good." Noah laughs lightly "Been practicing for about a week...off and on...wondering if I'd ever get the chance to let you hear it."

Rick pipes up "I'm gonna hear it THAT way forever!" 

"Me, too!" Nick crows in effusive flattery "Dave couldn't pull that off on his BEST day!"

Roger acknowledges both Rick's and Nick's opinions with a single word of his own. "Agreed." Turning back to Noah, he asks "What made you alter it the way you did?"

"Dunno," Noah shrugs "it just sounded more...doggy...I guess." He snickers subversively "Besides, it was too easy."

Roger bites the bait. "Too easy? WHAT, pray tell, do you deem difficult, then?"

"Oh, you want somethin' HARD? You got it. Just try an' keep up, boyos!" This time, a faint line of concentration creases Noah's brown brow as fingers ferret frolicsome melody which all in the room immediately recognize as Chuck Berry's signature style, even if none of them can quite place the tune.

[It's not "Johnny B. Goode", but Noah sure does play a guitar just like he's ringin' a bell.] Rick has been seated upon piano bench this whole time, and although he'd had no intention of playing anything today, he nonetheless felt safer enthroned behind fortifying wall of wood and wire. Now, hearing jolly, jaunty ditty draws his hands toward the keys as this old-time rock-n-roll reminds him why he'd wanted to be a piano man in the first place. He's been warbling away at synthesized sounds for so long, he'd nearly forgotten the allure of bop and boogie. He isn't sure if this particular song even HAS piano, but what starts unspooling under his fingers works well with what Noah's got going.

[It's not "No Particular Place To Go", but conjures images of ridin' along in my automobile.] Nick arises from the chair where he'd been lazily lounging, striding six steps, snatching sticks, settling swiftly into familiar fit at kit. He might not know what Noah's playing, but he remembers well the KIND of rockin' rhythm it needs, recollecting buoyant bliss of backbeat bash that made him want to be a drummer in the first place.

[It's not "Roll Over Beethoven", but I'm burning to tell Tchaikovsky the news. We're back in business!] Roger never especially wanted to be a bassist...too easy...but knew from a young age he had potential to become a grand composer. He's been doing the heavy lifting for so long, and now, seeing such sheer joy on faces he's grown all-too-accustomed to watching him wearily or warily, all he wants to do is watch THEM...having fun... for a change. Still, though, he needs the words... 

Catching Noah's eyes and holding them with gladdened gaze, Roger taps his own throat then spreads the fingers outward in a gesture clearly communicating: "Sing."

Noah obediently obliges, offering tremolo tenor.

"If I was a dignitary on Capitol Hill  
And up and married me a waitress in a hot dog grill  
It's my own business, it's my own business  
Because I am not a juvenile  
And I can go out at my own free wile  
After workin' on my job and then drawin' my pay  
If I want to go out and have a ball and throw it all away  
It's my own business, it's my own business  
'Cause I don't wait until tomorrow  
To do something I could do today!"

Finishing in a flourish, Noah's fadeout encourages Rick and Nick to add a few extemporaneous endings of their own before Roger breaks into appreciative applause. He can't remember the last time he cheered, but spontaneously does so now.

"BRAVO!"

Rick and Nick seem slightly shocked at Roger's full-throated exclamation while Noah gives a shuffling little bow that's almost a happy-dance. "Thank you, thank you. Wish I could say I'll be here all week, but I prob'ly won't. That's okay, though, coz this has been the greatest time of my LIFE! Nobody believed me when I bragged I'd got an audition to play for Pink Floyd, and they REALLY won't believe Pink Fuckin' Floyd just played with ME! C'mon, gentlemen, whatta you say to just one more?" He's practically bubbling with excited exuberance, eagerly entreating "Let's do 'Maybelline', or how 'bout 'My Ding-A-Ling'?"

"YEAH!" Rick enthusiastically agrees, but Roger reluctantly reassembles his smile into stern semblance of sobriety.

"Okay, okay, settle down. We gotta get serious here for a while, but I promise we'll whip out 'My Ding-A-Ling' next time."

"Next time?" Noah's eyes alight and he nearly drops his guitar along with his jaw. "You mean I'm hired?"

Roger permits "Probationally. You aced the talent portion, but now it's time for the Q and A session. We've seen what magnificent manner of guitarist you are, now we need to learn a bit more about what kind of PERSON you are. We can PLAY together, but can we WORK together?"

"Anything you wanna know, Boss, lay it on me. I'm an open book." Noah bestows a quick kiss on the headstock of his Gretsch, murmuring "We did it!" against the tuning pegs before bending to reverently replace instrument into the hard case open at his feet.

"How soon can you start?" is Roger's first question.

"Um..." Noah checks his wristwatch "...about an hour ago. Look, I'd normally never quit a position without proper notice, but, REALLY, this is a DREAM job. Literally, I dreamed about it from the moment I saw your casting call. It's not like I'm leaving anybody in the lurch, either. Second-chair's been tryin' to cut my throat fighting for first ANYWAY, and besides, my old boss is an uptight asshole who never appreciates ANYBODY."

Nick quips "So's your new boss."

Roger doesn't dignify that, asking instead "Do you need money? I'd rather not get down to contract brass tacks today, but we will require your expedient relocation from Belfast to London, and we can certainly float an advance if that'll help it happen faster."

Laughing merrily, Noah flashes pink palms in deferential denial "No, no way, I'm not needy OR greedy, guys. I mean, since you're, y'know...millionaires...I obviously WILL want money, but I'm cool if you don't pay me a dime until we either play a show or cut a record."

"Shit..." Nick thanks their lucky stars to have landed a masterful musician who doesn't seem concerned with cash "...good as you are, we could play a show TOMORROW."

"Don't tempt me." Roger warns "I would love that." [On Dirty Dave's front lawn at the crack of dawn, if I had my way.]

"Me, too!" Noah assures "Just gimme a set list and I'm ready whenever you say!"

"Roger, c'mon..." Rick pleads "That's crazy. Don't you have a few more questions, first?" [I'd like to learn about his personal life, but don't dare dig.]

"Spoilsport. Yeah, I guess I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to the inquisition, Mister O'Hara. Do you have any bad habits?"

Noah considers this from several angles, then answers with another question "What do you mean by 'bad'?"

Roger promptly clarifies "What would you say interferes the most with your work?"

"Distractibility." Noah decides, explaining "I get bored easily, and when things aren't interesting enough I tend to break out and go lookin' for some fun, but I don't think that's gonna be a problem HERE. NOTHING could be more exciting than THIS!"

"You say that NOW." Roger's lip quirks in wry amusement. "Any issues with drugs or alcohol? I won't haul you hungover out of a Happiness Hotel or scrape you off the road after driving drunk."

Noah has thus far been the very epitome of easygoing, but at this insinuation his merry eyes flash with sudden, startling spark of intense indignation. "Too right you won't. You will NEVER see me drunk. I don't GET drunk, which means I don't get hungover, either."

Rick remarks "A rock-n-roll teetotaler? That's really rare."

"Hey, I'm no straight-edge temperance crusader." Noah calmly corrects "I'll take a cold beer with my fish-n-chips or sip champagne on New Year's Eve, I just don't like sloppy, staggering drunks and don't ever wanna be one, all right?"

Roger can tell this is a sore subject [alcoholic parent, perhaps?] but lets it alone for the time being. "Fair enough. Do you have any questions for us?"

"How soon can I start spreadin' the news? Does there have t'be some kind of massive press release before I'm allowed to tell anybody on my own?"

"You may phone your wife immediately, if you want, but I'd rather you not go public until we come to a decision together exactly how we wish to announce our new lineup."

" 'I ain't nevah gonna git married..." Noah affects a Bronx accent to proclaim "...too noisy.' "

Rick is the only one who gets the reference, and cannot resist flicking flippant callback: " 'You ain't neveh gonna git married...too ugly.' "

"Yeah, Baby!" Noah chortles cheerfully "SOMEBODY knows his Sondheim! Seriously, though, I'm not married, and don't ever want to be."

"Well, a rock guitarist gets more chicks than just about anybody in the world." Nick ruefully remarks, recollecting all the times he's been snubbed in favor of Dave. "Some pretty bird will tie you down one day, mark my words."

"You'll EAT those words, Brother." Noah insists, deciding he won't get a better setup for something he's been wondering whether to share so soon. "I'm not entirely opposed to being tied down, mind you, but I go for the cocks, not the hens."

Nick's reaction is a skeptical snort, Rick's a quiet gasp and Roger's a rapid double-blink, but nobody utters a single word for several heartbeats.

"Pardon the pun, gentlemen, but is that gonna queer the deal?"

Nick casts a suspicious glance, wondering if Noah's trying to mess with them. "You're serious?"

"Not by nature, no..." Noah allows, admitting without any trace of evasion or embarrassment "...but I AM homosexual. Asking again, and really need an answer, here... Will it be a problem for anybody in this room if MY groupies are men?" He adds insouciantly "I don't really CARE if it's a botheration for anybody ELSE, but if it'll be a deal-breaker for any of YOU guys, best to know now before I get any more invested in this beautiful dream."

"No problem for ME." Nick agreeably accepts "I'm actually relieved you won't poach my prospects like Dave did. Maybe I won't be last pick anymore if you're not even in the game."

"We're not cretins, Noah." Rick uses his name aloud for the first time, attempting to overtly reassure while covertly suppressing salacious surge of curiosity. "Doesn't make any difference to me." [Maybe a little, but that's MY personal problem...and my own business]

All three pairs of eyes settle on Roger, who is obviously thinking so critically that there's almost a phantom sound of grinding gears. When he finally speaks, it's with an uncharacteristic hesitance as he tries to articulate as honestly as possible without being cruel.

"Look, I have to be straight with you." emerges with ghost of grin "No pun intended. Your...private proclivities...are of no more concern to me, personally, than your race. You have to understand, however, that it's going to be a big fucking deal to PLENTY of other people. An orchestra's one thing, but...well...we're on the WORLD stage level, here, and there's just NO WAY you can reasonably expect it won't become tabloid fodder. Intrusive interviews are an unavoidable way of life for what we do, Noah. Even if everybody in this room agrees to keep your secret, and even if you're deviously discreet, there are simply too many people involved in this machine. SOMEBODY will eventually talk."

"And you can't risk anybody calling your band Pink TRIANGLE Floyd, huh?" Noah sighs, resigned but nonetheless dejected. "Okay, I get it. Well, thanks for giving my MUSIC a chance, anyway...if just for a hot minute." He stoops to pick up his guitar case, but is halted by Roger's sharp rebuke.

"How dare you? You obviously don't get it AT ALL. I just SAID that AYE don't give the proverbial rodent's hindquarters WHAT you do with your own nether regions, and that's exactly what I'll tell the prurient press and uptight idiots if they ever ask ME. I'm just warning that YOU are not going to be able to keep your private life private. If, knowing that, you are still willing to join us, then Pink Triangle Floyd we shall stand together...even if suspicion starts to circulate that we might all SLEEP together."

"You evidently didn't listen to ME." Noah fires back "AYE just said I don't CARE if it spooks the straights, and guess what, Mister Know-it-all? It's not some deep dark secret. EVERYBODY who knows me already accepts that I'm a proud, upstanding cocksucker, and I'm fine with answering interviews about it, if that's what the fucking fourth estate really wants to talk to me about. Maybe it's still technically a crime on some backward books, but they don't exactly throw guys in gaol for being gay anymore!" Fierce defiance fades as swiftly as it arose and Noah's next words are again affably amiable.

"And even if they DO, in some shit-splat corners of the 'world stage' where OUR band might wind up playing, if you truly mean everything you just said, you'd come and bail me out then tell the Sharif or Caliph or whatever the fuck they call a high poo-bah in horrid, homo-hating hellholes exactly where HE can stick it." A full foot shorter than Roger, Noah beams beatific, beseeching entreaty up into craggy features looming above. "Wouldn't you...Boss?"

"You've got a deal, Noah O'Hara." Roger holds out a hand to offer solemn shake, and as Noah's slim, brown paw disappears entirely within the giant, pale spider crab of Roger's fingers, he finds himself asking a question he hadn't intended. "Do you write?" [That was a brilliant lyric diatribe...maybe I'm no longer the only wordsmith around]

Noah is momentarily taken aback, taking a tick or two before replying "Never had the luxury of time to try. Maybe once I start gettin' all that yummy money for nothin' rolling in, I'll give it a shot."

Roger will not take 'maybe' for an answer. He very much likes being called 'Boss', and determines to act like one. He releases Noah's hand to point a stern finger. "You will show me sooner than that. When next we meet, I shall expect to be presented with an original composition. I'll be in touch, and we'll all jam together again soon, but right now get out and get busy. We three kings need to talk about you behind your back."


	4. Over The Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Singing praises and cracking jokes...

"Where'd you FIND this guy, Roger?" Nick is still coming to grips with their fantastic fortune. "I was DREADING doing days of awful auditions, but it sure seems we won't need to see anybody else."

"He found US, if you'll recall. I assure you, until today I didn't know Noah from Adam." [Hmmm..."in the biblical sense" might take on a whole new dimension of insinuation...] "He does almost seem too good to be true, though, doesn't he?"

Rick cannot recollect the last occasion upon which he'd baited baleful bane [that was usually Dave's department], but dares to do so now. "Oh, YOU just want him 'cause he kissed your butt."

Realizing that an inability to laugh at himself has significantly contributed to their ongoing dysfunction, Roger manages to suppress his acerbic assessment [I strongly suspect he'll be sucking YOUR cock before we even cut a record] without swallowing his pride. What finally emerges is no less honest, albeit far friendlier. "I can't deny that's a welcome change. Such sweet supplication won't last, so I'm sure as shit gonna enjoy it while it does."

"You're the 'Boss', now, huh?"

"Rick..." Roger sighs, grateful he does not need to explain this to Nick, who already knows it. "I've ALWAYS been the boss, even though I don't make any more money or get any more respect, and this is not...entirely...by choice. I Really Want more input...and OUTput...from you, but I can't MAKE you step up...or speak up. I don't like being painted as a terrible tyrant, but until such time as you care to carry that weight, it shall remain MY heavy head which wears the crown."

"You act like it's a crown of thorns." Rick grumbles.

Nick snickers "Holy Waters." 

"Sometimes it feels that way..." Roger replies, mournful martyrdom swiftly shifting toward blissful beatitude "...but not right now! Wasn't he BRILLIANT?" He beams broadly at both bandmates "I wish you could've seen your faces, fellows. You looked so happy I almost didn't recognize either of you. Can you IMAGINE how great it'll be when we're all actually playing the same song?" Next question is solemnly spoken, although gleeful grin remains. "Which song should it be?"

"Everybody loves 'My Ding-A-Ling'. Even Roger wants to whip it out." Grave gravitas with which Nick intones those words moves all three men to sudden laughter, and each muses in his own way that this hasn't happened in ages.

[Maybe my joke wasn't that funny, but we're all in on it together! That's practically a miracle.]

[It's not His customary creepy cackle... Roger's really laughing... and at something goofy and childish, no less. That somehow makes it even funnier.]

[We must look like lunatics, but I've never been so secure in my sanity. Noah's not even here, yet he's working wonders. That gives me hope for the...OUR...future.]

Rick is the first to recover, speaking softly and sincerely, saying simply "I like him. He's got good manners."

"He's got killer chops." Nick succinctly sums.

"He's got big balls." [incredibly, isn't inclined to break MINE] Roger's deadpan declaration elicits another round of snorted snickers before he cheerfully carries on. "While these are all excellent reasons to celebrate our Mister O'Hara, they are all also things we could...and shall...say to his face."

"How old is he?" Rick wants to know. "Application didn't say."

"He's our age..." is Roger's estimation "...thereabouts."

Rick quibbles "We aren't all the same age."

Roger rolls his eyes. "Yes, we ARE. We were at school together, for fuck's sake. Jockeying slim-margin birth order is for squabbling siblings." [So shut up, little sister]

"I thought he was WAY younger at first." Nick shares "He's such a shrimp, and that star-struck golly-gee act he had goin' on made him look like a kid."

"That was no act." Of this Roger is almost certain. "At any rate, his birthdate is a safe subject. Perhaps we would well avoid making mention of his height, however. Some small men are viciously sensitive..." he snidely sniffs "...like Andy Summers."

"Noah seems pretty secure." Nick ventures "I'm not gonna make fun of him on purpose, but with two such OBVIOUS traits, I just know there might come a day when a potentially offensive word could slip out."

"While I'm sure Noah has heard both double-G pejoratives before, he will NEVER hear either of them from any of us. Understood?"

Nick's expression is appalled, aghast and angry. "What the fuck is WRONG with you, Roger? Neither of THOSE words even crossed my MIND!"

Equally shocked, Rick murmurs indignantly "I've never said EITHER of those words...ever."

Roger has the decency to show shame, admitting "I have...never in anger, mind you... but I won't anymore. Not even as syllables of epithet evoking gritty gutter patois."

Now that they've arrived at it, Rick can't help but ask "Did that dickhead director tell you..." he isn't sure how to put it, but has no doubt Roger digs his drift "...anything else before Noah told us today?"

"Not THAT, which I suppose we should discuss."

"Nope." Nick emphatically enunciates, literally throwing up his hands while shaking his head in exaggerated pantomime of denial. "Don't care. End of discussion."

"Okay..." Rick agrees, somewhat defensively. "I only wanted to find out if Roger knew before we did, but I guess there's not exactly anything we need to talk about, is there? Noah made himself pretty clear, so it's nobody's lookout but his own."

Recollecting revealing details which may have gone unnoticed by less strict scrutiny than he employs [balanced stance, keen perception, calm confidence...scarred knuckles. Noah's not afraid to fight, but he picks his battles], Roger replies "I get the distinct impression our new guitarist can look out for himself just fine. So, what word WERE you thinking, then, Nick?"

Fresh spate of giggles emerge along with Nick's elucidation. "Um, yeah... it's maybe mean, but come ON... he's short, and he's Irish. If he ever wears green, I won't be the only one who wants to say 'leprechaun', will I?"

Roger howls, helpless hilarity holding sway for several seconds. Watching him double over in such uncharacteristically unaffected mirth, Nick and Rick exchange a laden glance which clearly communicates mutual understanding of his earlier words to them.

[He's never looked so happy. It's almost unrecognizable. Let's enjoy it while it lasts.]

When he can finally speak, Roger stands upright and dabs dampness from streaming eyes with the back of his hand. [Literal tears of laughter...maybe even joy...how long has it been?] "Faith and begorra, Mister Mason, you're an evil man." He shakes a finger at Nick in mock avuncular admonishment, avowing "THAT word never crossed MY mind. Now that you mention it, though, I've a VERY clear picture of Noah O'Hara dancing jaunty jig in buckled boots. No... until we know him better, anyway... I suppose we shouldn't utter that particular potentially pejorative polysyllable in his presence."

[Impossible to predict where this rainbow ends, but Noah's definitely worth his weight in gold.]


End file.
